Why We Fear John Casey
by Nightfawkes
Summary: The volleyball incident at last year's employee picnic.


A/N: Missing scene, based on the infamous Morgan line in 3x05. Presumably set mid-S2. 

Griffith Park was beautiful today. The lush green lawn stretched for acres, studded with trees, families and children, bike trails, dogs, laughter, and games of ultimate Frisbee.

Casey was miserable.

One of his few, _actual _days off - and he had to spend it here, of all places. Surrounded by sunshine and the scent of barbecue, and the smiling faces of all… these… well, he was really hesitant to call them 'people'.

"Hey man, want some?"

Jeff Barnes. Perpetually bleary-eyed and a half beat out of step with the rest of the species. He shuffled closer to Casey, wearing a blue t-shirt that read "Little Miss Sunshine" on it, and holding out a nondescript flask. Even from a few feet away, Casey could smell the fumes of Jeff's infamous Jungle Juice seeping from the container's open mouth. Casey took a wary step back. That poison had all the olfactory charm of jet fuel – and went down just about as smooth.

From the other side of the BBQ pit, a wide-eyed Lester stared in their direction, and began making frantic hand-across-the-throat motions. Casey figured it roughly translated to "Stop! Stop! For the love of baby Moses and all that's holy, don't… Too late." Casey just wasn't sure if was directed at him, to warn him away from Jeff's toxic libation, or at Jeff, in a vain attempt to save his friend from bodily harm at Casey's hands.

Casey closed his eyes briefly as a long-suffering sigh escaped from his lips. Bartowski. Where was Bartowski? Might as well do his job, seeing as he was going to be stuck in this Twilight Zone episode of an afternoon anyway. Maybe with any luck, someone would threaten Chuck's life, and Casey would get a chance to visit some much-needed violence upon them. Marginally cheered by the notion, Casey strode off in search of his asset, not sparing Barnes another thought.

"Okay," Jeff said happily to Casey's retreating back. "More for me, then."

Casey spotted Chuck off to his left, on the far side of their stretch of lawn, under some trees. The younger man was sitting in the shade with Morgan and Anna, head thrown back in laughter as Morgan made lewd gesticulations with what looked to be a – what _was _that? Casey narrowed his eyes, and altered his angle of travel to intercept their position. It looked like something actually entertaining was going on over there. And was that string cheese?

Unfortunately, Casey didn't get to find out. With an imperious clearing of his throat, followed by a bellowed "Hey, get your asses over here!" Big Mike summoned them all to the patch of crab grass in front of the picnic table where he was holding court for the day. Two boxes from the closest bakery sat neatly stacked on one side of the table, a pile of gossip rags spread haphazardly over the other. The sun gleamed dully off their glossy covers, and Casey counted at least half a dozen at first glance. His heart sank in his chest. Big Mike hadn't come for a hit and run operation; he had come to occupy the territory. Everyone knew the rules – no one could leave until the boss left. And from the look of that stockpile, Big Mike was settling in for the long haul.

The brief, treasured vision of a quiet afternoon spent waxing the Crown Vic and re-grouting the tile in his bathroom dissipated with the passing wisps of clouds.

"Listen up, people." With a collective sigh, the mob moved an obligatory step closer.

"This here is the Annual Buy More Employee Picnic." Casey would swear he could actually hear the capital letters in Big Mike's voice. "Most of you know what that means – but for those of you who are new, or were too wasted the previous years to remember, allow me to recap: One – if you are not a Buy More employee, go the hell away."

An awkward pause, and then a couple of teenagers who had been eyeing Jeff's tower o' twelve-packs guiltily sidled away from the back of the crowd.

"Two – If you _are _a Buy More employee, you will stay at said Picnic until I am good and ready to let you leave. That means no putting on sunglasses and a fake mustache and attempting to sneak off with the family next to us who are here celebrating their daughter's Quinceañera… GRIMES."

Morgan smiled and waved at everyone. A quiet voice suddenly spoke into Casey's ear, "Ahh, the picnic of '07." Casey instinctively suppressed his jolt of startlement. Chuck really could be incredibly stealthy sometimes. As long as he wasn't actually _trying_ to be, that is. "That, my friend, was not our finest hour. You'd think Morgan would understand the futility of a fake mustache on top of an already full beard. But no."

Casey grunted in amusement, and twisted his torso slightly so that Chuck could slip through the press of people and stand up next to him.

"Third!" Big Mike was settling into the rhythm of his pontification now, hands clasped over his belt buckle as he rocked slightly back and forth on his heels. "I will be at this table for the duration of the afternoon. Unless you are bringing me delicious baked goods," he paused to consider, then amended, "Or barbecue, you _will not_ approach, speak to, look at, or in any other way interrupt my existence.

"Fourth! To ensure the success and serenity of objective number three, you will all spend the remainder of the day engaged in some sort of team sport activity. Since the purpose of this is to keep you occupied and as far from me as possible given the company's Picnic-boundary regulations, I have no further interest in this topic. Therefore, you will all give your attention to Assistant Manager Emmett Milbarge. Emmett?"

Big Mike settled his ponderous bulk back behind the table, daintily selected a pastry from the top bakery box, and spread the first of his magazines open before him. Casey thought it might be an US Weekly.

Beside him, Chuck was chanting "Please no please no please no…" under his breath.

Casey raised a curious eyebrow, and then refocused his attention as Milbarge minced his way over to stand in front of them all. Casey was _really _hoping that somewhere in the next sentence out of Milbarge's mouth would be the words 'tackle football'.

"Friends… Co-workers… BuyMorians!" Emmett paused for a laugh, was met with stony silence, and attempted to cover with a cough. "As our noble and esteemed leader has just mentioned - "

"Quit kissin' ass, Emmett. We're off the clock." Big Mike's voice, as he flipped a page. "Oh, you tawdry, tawdry teens…" The crowd snickered.

Milbarge forged on, undaunted. "As our illustrious guiding light has said, I have had the honor of planning our entertainment for this, the most hallowed day of the Buy More year. After taking into careful consideration the attributes and physical prowess of all our brethren, I pondered long and hard upon the most appropriate and enjoyable sport for all here today. Thus I believe you will be as excited as I, when I announce that today's team sport is to be…. _Volleyball_!!"

In the baffled silence that followed, Casey heard Chuck mutter a succinct and heartfelt "Crap!"

Casey agreed wholeheartedly. And Chuck was the least of their worries. There was Skip, all flailing limbs and sharp corners. Morgan, who was barely chest-high to a house cat. Lester, whose delicate forearms looked like they might snap after the first bump. What about that horrifying blob boy, who Casey very deliberately avoided at all costs. Or Anna – okay in all fairness, Anna would probably be killer at this game. But Jeff…. Well. Jeff.

After that, a sort of "just yank the band-aid off and get it over with!" mentality seemed to settle over the Buy Morians. Jaws set and expressions quietly mutinous, several of the guys trudged off to drag the nets and poles out of a battered blue duffle bag. Everyone else obediently formed into a line, and Emmett began swiftly divvying up the teams. Apparently, Milbarge had come to the same conclusions as Casey, because the first two players chosen and put on opposing sides were Anna and Casey himself.

Okay, so this was going to be a disaster. But at least he wasn't the little fat kid being picked last this time. Small mercies.

He walked out to take his place on the grass, marveling at the struggle of Skip and the Blob and their clumsy attempts to rig the net. From the other side of the mesh, Anna shot Casey an outrageous wink, dark eyes framed by vivid pink eye-shadow. Casey winked back. He liked Anna – respected both her surprising martial skills, as well as her healthy sense of the ridiculous. She was likely to need both in the oncoming fiasco.

By the time the net was finally hoisted and secured in place, Casey had been joined by Morgan, Jeff, and some new broad, squat little female called Chris. After the final tether had been staked to the ground, the Blob trundled his way over as well, followed by poor hapless Skip, who had already tripped over the net's tether ropes. Twice.

On the other side of the court, Lester was sizing up the net, lips pursed in a moue as he slowly came to the realization that just getting the ball high enough to reach the other side was likely to be his greatest challenge. The dour, hatchet-faced cashier stood at his side, patting his shoulder awkwardly and apparently trying to give Lester a pep talk. Chuck was standing close to Anna, shooting indecipherable glances at Casey through the net. When Emmett moved to join them, Chuck startled and flinched away. Casey's eyes narrowed.

"Hey Grimes-" Casey's hand latched onto Morgan's shoulder, and with no discernible effort hauled the smaller man up next to him. Morgan huffed, torn between insult at the presumptive man-handling, and admiration for Casey's masterful musculature. He quickly settled for admiration. It's not like being thrown around was anything new.

"Yeah, big man. What's the haps?"

Casey jerked his chin in the direction of the other team, where Chuck was oh-so-casually orbiting Anna, the corner of one wary eye locked on Milbarge as the plaid-clad man attempted to maneuver himself between Chuck and the tiny Taiwanese protector.

Morgan, as tuned in as he ever was to the All Things Chuck channel, nodded sagely. "Yeah. The under-lord really has it bad for our boy, huh? I didn't realize how far things had gotten until that little run-in on Thursday."

Casey felt his jaw tighten. "_What _little run-in on Thursday?"

"What, you didn't hear?" Morgan seemed genuinely confused by this. "Thought for sure he would have told you..."

"Told. Me. What??"

Morgan winced and swallowed. "I guess Milbarge finally caught Chuck alone in the restroom. That cretin had been angling after a glimpse of Chuck for weeks, but Chuck always managed to stay one step ahead. 'Till Thursday. Now I guess Emmett's decided he likes what he sees."

Oh. Oh! Oh, _really_…

Morgan rambled on, oblivious to the hard glint icing over Casey's eyes. "My poor buddy. Is it his fault that he is the embodiment of every fantasy, whether woman's or man's? I think not. But you know Chuck. Ever so modest. So gentle with his power…"

Casey's mind was already racing, bounding from scenario to scenario. Ninety-nine percent of which he was forced to reject out of hand, sadly. Like it or not, he had to protect his cover.

But this entire situation was intolerable. So Casey would not tolerate it. Simple.

He watched as Milbarge walked past Chuck, knuckles grazing against Chuck's ass so lightly as to seem accidental, and the muscle of Casey's jaw ticked with suppressed outrage. Anna would have been better for this plan, but still…

Maybe, just maybe, Casey had a way to save them all from what was shaping up to be a truly hellacious afternoon. And if he happened to get a little payback for Chuck along the way? Well, so much the better.

"Listen up, Grimes," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "You ever even step foot on a volleyball court before?"

Morgan eyed Casey with interest. "I just might have at that. Whatcha got in mind?" Casey gave Morgan a rough outline. "That's it? What about the rest?"

"Don't you worry about that," Casey growled, as Milbarge's voice called everyone to their positions. "Just do as I said." Morgan nodded as they both took their places, and then there was no more time for planning. Emmett blew a shrill whistle, drew his wrist back in an awkward underhand arch, and hit the first serve.

The game was a travesty.

Honestly, this was no surprise to anyone, but that didn't make it any less excruciating to witness. Still, they played on, grimly determined to see it through in the same way they faced all things Buy More – with perverse near-masochism, unflagging stubbornness, and a truly twisted sense of humor. Casey almost admired them for that. Almost.

And the game progressed, as these things will do. Players switched in and out of rotation with the extraneous employees lounging on the sides of the court; randomly abandoning their team in order to ice battered forearms, nurse jammed thumbs, or simply fortify themselves from the near-inexhaustible supply of beer. Beer which Jeff had selflessly given up as communal property upon announcement of the day's sport with a mournful, "For the good of the herd."

Lester had patted him gently on the back. "Thank you Jeffrey. Once again you surprise me by exhibiting something that might be depth of personality."

"Ours is a doomed people."

Lester patted him again. "Indeed Jeff. Indeed."

The beer did what it could to help. It took the edge off the pain, dulled the humiliation. It did not, however, improve anyone's aim.

Casey bided his time, kept an eye on the positions of the players tagging themselves in and out, and played some volleyball. And while he played, he watched. Milbarge was relentless. He pursued Chuck with unholy focus, a take-no-prisoners campaign to force his way through Chuck's defenses. After a successful play, Emmett would clap Chuck on the shoulder with one hand, and pinch his ass lightly with the other. After a missed ball, or a wild hit, Emmett would move to condole, friendly touches that lingered just long enough to become something more than friendly. And from the mulish, sidelong glares that Milbarge was starting to attract from the other players, his machinations had not gone unnoticed. They tried to help run interference, but there was only so much they could do, especially since Anna was currently sidelined, waiting on Big Mike with a platter of ribs. Emmett laughed, a high-pitched effeminate sound, and Chuck's barely-concealed look of disgust made Casey's stomach roil in empathy.

_Just hang in there, Bartowski. _

Finally, Casey's team rotated positions again, and Chris panted as she wandered off the court, tagging Morgan back in. Casey's nerves tightened. This was it. Morgan was front row, center, with Casey to his immediate left. On the other side of the net, Chuck was pale under a sheen of sweat, expression grim as he doggedly ignored the awkward fumbling that had managed to land Emmett plastered to Chuck's back. Again. Chuck peeled the man-leech off and gave him a slight shove, and then there Emmett was, front and center and not three feet away from the net.

The chance had come, and Casey was ready. A serve, a volley, and then Morgan set the ball perfectly, sending it soaring high as Casey took three running steps and leapt into the air, swinging his arm around and down and bringing all his considerable strength to bear. The crack of his palm hitting leather was like a gunshot, and he spiked the ball as hard as he possibly could.

Straight into Emmett's groin.

For a half-second, there was nothing but stunned silence. Then a strangled howl split the air, and Milbarge dropped like an anvil right where he stood. The game came to an abrupt, wary halt.

The afternoon sun filtered through the clouds, touching gold highlights to the volleyball as it rolled away, unnoticed. Casey stood with legs planted firmly, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at the man before him. Emmett lay on the grass half under the net, limbs splayed at impossible angles like a tortured doll. His face was bleach-white under a red flush, and his mouth worked futilely, gasping for breath that he couldn't quite draw. His eyes sought Casey's in a daze - pain, fear, confusion, and more pain etched across his features as he stuttered "Wh… wha… what… why…."

Casey's voice was a lazy, venomous drawl as he said, "Whoops."

It was Buy More Employee Picnic history in the making. Even Big Mike sat in shock, half-chewed danish hanging out of his mouth, before barking orders for Skip and his unfortunately shaped counterpart to pull the net down on the double. Big Mike had a sudden, powerful hankering for a pile of fritters and his nice comfy couch. And that meant it was time to go home. He gathered up his magazines, one eye on Emmett, who was still lying on the grass, twitching and whimpering for his mother. Time to go home, right now.

The Buy More denizens tripped over themselves in their haste to get out of Casey's way as he stalked through the grass and to Chuck's side.

"So," said Chuck, as he stretched languidly. "Are we having fun yet?"

Casey's grin was downright feral. "We might be."

"You could have let me in on the plan, you know. Kept me from contemplating hara-kiri while awaiting timely rescue."

"Plan? And what plan would that be?"

Morgan popped up at Casey's elbow, smiled widely and gave two thumbs up. "Awesome plan, John!" and then scampered after Anna.

Casey marveled at Grime's incredible sense of timing, as Chuck merely raised a skeptical eyebrow in his direction.

"What? It was an accident. Didn't you hear me say 'whoops'?"

"You are the embodiment of innocence."

Casey sighed. "I'm not gonna lie. That last spike kinda stung, Bartowski."

Chuck grinned up at him and grabbed Casey's right hand, turning it over to examine the angry red impact mark on the heel of Casey's palm. "Awwh. Need me to kiss it and make it better?"

Casey gave a self-satisfied grunt. "Seems the least you could do."

"Well come on then, killer. Let's fire up the Vic and take you home, so I can treat those war wounds properly." The look he shot up through his lashes made Casey's heart skip a beat.

They turned to walk for the car; shoulders brushing as their long strides habitually matched each other. Chuck's pinky finger curled around his, and Casey smirked. This had been a pretty good afternoon.

Lester stared after them, shaking his head in wonder, a single thoughtful finger braced along the side of his cheek, before he turned to the man at his side.

"Jefferson, my faithful comrade. Just _imagine_ what that man could do on a dodge ball court."

THE END


End file.
